


Once Upon a Time in London

by skimmingthesurface



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crimes Commited by Animals, Crowley and Aziraphale are Cats, Inspired by Disney, M/M, Mild Language, Oliver & Company AU, Staged Car Accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface
Summary: Street savvy Crowley intended for this to be an easy job, in and out, not the kind of thing a cat like him could muck up. However, when he broke into the vintage Bentley his gang identified as their next target so he could make off with something valuable, Crowley didn't expect to meet another cat. A cat who might as well have been an angel and given him something he never thought a cat like him deserved to have. A chance.Inspired by Disney'sOliver & Company
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60
Collections: An Eventful Surprise





	Once Upon a Time in London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi/gifts).



> This is dedicated to the incredible [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi) in appreciation for running the Good Omens Event Server on Discord and all the time put into running the super fun events like Rom Com, Good AUmens, and others!
> 
> Thank you for all that you do! One of the prompts was Disney, and since one of your fics involves Crowley owning a pet shop, I thought it would be fun to work off a film with them as animals! _Oliver & Company_ is one of my favorite Disney movies, so I hope you enjoy this too!
> 
> Part of this was written for the NTA, but then more happened...
> 
> Special thanks to my amazing beta [SylviaW1991](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviaw1991) for all her help and support in chopping the original down to 500 words! And then cheerleading through the rest of this! And a big thank you to [musegnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musegnome) for getting the collection up and running and to [Pyracantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha) and [charlottemadison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison) for running the NTA and to all the incredibly talented writers who took part in it!

_Keep your dream alive;_  
_Dreaming is still how the strong survive._  
\- Huey Lewis, "Once Upon a Time in New York City" 

\----

From the start Crowley had never fit in. His first few whiffs of the world had been from within the confines of a wet cardboard box with “Free Kittens” scrawled on the front - not that he knew that was what it had said, he had only been a kitten, after all. The only kitten with an entirely black coat out of his entire litter. His siblings had been mostly mottled with grey and white, though a few had splotches of black marring their otherwise pristine fur, but apparently it hadn't been enough to deter them from being bundled up in unconditional love. One by one, whisked away to some posh forever home in the middle of central London, while Crowley had been left in the gutter.

Black cats were unlucky, after all, or so he'd heard as he grew up on the streets, skittering through alleys in search of scraps and shelter from the dreary drizzle of the city. His favourite places to tuck into were the wheel wells of cars. The smell of rubber and oil enveloping him where a loving embrace would not. Sometimes he’d be lucky and find an engine still warm to nestle near. He couldn’t stay long in cars like that though. He’d be startled when the ignition switched on or when the tyres began to turn or when an angry human shooed him away. 

Then one day he’d been caught up in a scheme with a couple of dogs for food and somehow talked them out of eating him in exchange for, well, working for them and their master. It wasn’t all terrible; he got some kind of shelter out of it, moving in with their lot in an old warehouse between Barking and Dagenham along the Thames. Right across from the sewage plant. It certainly explained why the dogs smelled of poo, though Crowley had a feeling that would’ve been the case regardless.

It wasn’t much of a home, but he'd long given up on ever having one of his own. If he hadn't been adopted when he was a cute and curious little thing, then who would want him as this unwanted, untamed cat used to coming and going as he pleased? 

Well, almost as he'd pleased.

“Oh, Crawly…” a dog's growl rose up to him where he'd tucked himself away in the rafters of the old warehouse ceiling. 

“We know you’re in here,” a second dog grumbled.

Crowley’s ears and tail twitched irritably, not at all ready to be roused from his nap, not by these two, at any rate. Especially if they weren’t even going to call him properly. 

Not about to let a lack of an owner or family keep him from having a name, he’d dubbed himself Crowley after hearing it once on the radio and thought it sounded cool. Apparently he was in the minority there though, given that everyone around him had taken to mockingly calling him _Crawly_. Like that made sense for a cat. Their excuse was because of the way he could slink across the ground on his belly, a stealth technique that got him out of more scrapes than he could count, but they saw it as beneath them. As if that was more undignified than drooling all over oneself.

Crowley lifted his head and peered over the edge, down to the concrete and crates below. Two dogs lurked in the dim light, one pale with stringy, matted fur and the other a stockier, solid black mutt. Hastur and Ligur. Crowley silently groaned and fell limp against his perch. He’d hoped he’d have a bit more time before he had to face the music.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…” Ligur called out in a mocking tone.

“Where’s the flash bastard when you need him?” Hastur complained as Crowley finally sighed and stretched.

“Dunno. But he’s always late.” Ligur snorted.

“Yeah. And he never shows up on time.”

“Always taking baths even when he doesn’t need them.”

Crowley scaled his way down, sneaking in the dark as smoothly as a serpent would slither through tall grass. He leapt onto a crate directly in front of the dogs and they bared their teeth on a low growl before they realized it was just him. Then they bared their teeth and growled again.

“Hi guys.” 

“Crawly. You’re late,” Ligur accused.

“So I’ve heard.” Crowley licked the side of his paw, then purposefully swiped it behind his ear several times. “So. What’s up?”

Hastur, bless him, actually looked up while Ligur huffed out a sharp, derisive breath. “It’s time to recount the deeds of the day.”

“Right. Deeds.” It was a stupid way they referred to showing off their spoils, the loot they’d managed to nick while carrying on like absolute demons throughout London. “I’ll just… mneh, go and grab mine then, shall I?”

“Hurry it up.”

Crowley stretched again, this time very unnecessarily, then slunk over to where he’d stashed his goods. He’d learned early on after being… _recruited_ to this ragtag gang of mutts and their equally raggedy human, that it was less of a team-oriented organization and rather an every dog - or cat - for themselves sort of mentality. His souvenirs had been swiped more times than he cared to count, until he used his uncanny ability as a cat to squeeze into crevices of all kinds to hide his things where no dog could reach. Not unless a dog happened to be particularly clever, which none of his company happened to be.

He closed his teeth around a black canvas tote bag and dragged it out. He’d felt his finds were particularly impressive. He’d waited around an estate sale until he could swipe a few things when no one was looking and didn’t feel too bad about it. They were always full of things people no longer wanted and wouldn’t really miss anyway. Of course, it was always a bit of fun to swap price stickers of items when no one was looking and to knock over the loose change from the till for a good laugh.

Sauntering back over to the dogs, he laid the bag at their feet, joining what appeared to be an old leather boot with a chunk of the heel missing and a wallet that looked too thin to hold anything of real value. He wasn’t surprised. 

“Stole this from a donation box from a church,” Hastur told them proudly, presenting his mangled boot. 

“I swiped mine from a politician while he was out to lunch,” Ligur recounted with menacing glee.

“Nice one,” Crowley replied.

“What’ve you got?”

“Right, you’ll like this.” He nosed open the bag and batted out a pair of Valentino sunglasses and a square watch with an interesting face that Crowley thought was rather stylish. “Figure Bea could get something for this at the pawn shop.”

Ligur huffed out an unimpressed grunt as he looked over the objects, Hastur leaning in to sniff them both. “S’not exactly… craftsmanship,” Ligur critiqued.

“C’mon, guys, the watch still works and there’s not even a scratch on the glasses,” Crowley defended. “Seems like decent enough condition to me.”

“Nobody asked you,” Hastur growled, spittle dripping from his maw and the cat’s ears flattened as he subtly shifted out of the splash zone.

Only for his back to arch sharply as Ligur snapped at him. Crowley’s claws came out and he lifted his front paw, poised to strike back if need be, but a new bark echoed through the warehouse as Dagon trotted in with three eager pups at her heels. Bea couldn’t be bothered to tell them apart when they were identical, so had just started addressing them all as Eric and it stuck. There used to be four of them.

“Right, listen up, you lot! Any minute now, Bea is going to expect to see what we’ve accomplished while they’ve been out,” Dagon called out. “The big boss is checking in today, so we’ve all got to look our best.”

“Worst,” Ligur corrected with a grumble, but no one acknowledged it.

“At attention,” Dagon commanded, then turned her stare on Crowley. “That includes you, cat.”

He offered the silvery-furred Borzoi a smile that was far too wide for the amount of cheer it actually held. Which was none at all. He went to nudge his things back into the tote bag, but Hastur kicked back with his hind leg and sent the sunglasses clattering across the warehouse floor. _Hastur…_ Crowley hissed, but Hastur and Ligur just snickered as they grabbed their loot with their teeth and slunk after Dagon. Crowley slipped the watch onto his tail, urged along by two of the Erics as they snapped at his heels.

“Oi. Watch it,” he told the pair of French bulldog mixes, startling them into scampering away into the next room.

The warehouse was one of several owned by Mr. Satan, their human’s boss. He ran several underground businesses, masked by the warehouses scattered through London. Bea was the manager of this sewage-smelling establishment, had their own office that was just as dingy and dimly lit as the rest of the place. 

It was their office that the dogs and cat filed into one by one. Fluorescent lights flickered and hummed with the same sort of sound dozens of buzzing flies would make, casting grey shadows on the walls. Bea sat slouched in an old desk chair with a wonky wheel, a bored expression on their face as they flipped through a folio with coffee ring stains on it and signed off on something with a lazy scrawl.

“Szo,” they started, their S’s hard and sounding more like Zed’s. “Let’szz get thiz over with. What’ve you got?”

While the dogs crowded around the desk, Crowley leapt up onto it and sat down right on top of the folio. There was plenty of open surface area to choose from, but of course, he had to settle on paper that Bea was actively using. Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.

Well, fun for him. Bea didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves much. 

Crowley lowered his tail and let the watch slide off it so Bea could take a look. They hummed as they fiddled with it, checking for its authenticity, not that Crowley thought any of them would know what was authentic or not. For Hell’s sake, Hastur thought a boot with a massive hole in it was still functional.

“Might get szomething for this.” Bea set it aside and looked at Crowley expectantly. “Anything elze?” Crowley’s tail flicked from side to side as he stared at them. “‘Courze not. And the reszt of you lot, what do you expect me to do with this?” They flung the wallet against the wall. “Mr. Zatan will not be pleazzzzed. Now get back out there and bring me szomething useful or I’ll feed you to the Hellhoundz.”

The Hellhounds were Mr. Satan’s prized Dobermans, bred to be the strongest, fastest, smartest, and toughest of their breed. Crowley had managed to scratch one of them on the nose when they got too close for comfort, just to tell them off for thinking they could do what they liked. Mr. Satan and Bea had definitely not been pleased, and they’d done more than send a rude note about it. Crowley wasn’t too keen on coming into contact with them again.

The gang slunk out of the office, tails between their legs, all except for Crowley who sauntered out with a swing to his hips and tail held high. If he was going to take to the town on someone’s orders, he was going to take it with style.

\----

“Now, we all know why we’ve gathered here today.” Dagon pontificated as she paced in front of the mutts, speaking as if she was addressing a crowd of thousands rather than five - one of the Erics was missing. “It’s up to us to show the boss what we’re really capable of. You’ve all had your chances in the past, but now it’s time to really show Mr. Satan and Bea that we’re just as tough, smart, and dangerous as the Hellhounds. In fact, I’d even say we’re _tougher_ , _smarter_ , and _more_ dangerous.” She paused, head held high. “I want you all to say it with me. We’re tougher!”

The silence stretched on for too long, her long snout swung right over Crowley’s head as she glared at the clueless mongrels. “Uh… we’re tougher?” Ligur repeated, though he sounded unsure.

“That’s right. And we’re- well, let’s just skip to more dangerous,” Dagon amended, glaring when Crowley snickered at the correction.

The missing Eric suddenly rounded the corner into the alley, tail wagging excitedly. “I think I found today’s mark! Over here!”

The gang lurked their way to the corner of Oxford Street, just in time to see a vintage Bentley idling at a traffic light. Crowley spent a lot of time in auto shops and junkyards in the hopes of finding some valuable car parts and knew a fine specimen of car when he saw one. This was a good car. A very good car.

One of the Erics apparently agreed as they whistled. “A chauffeur shuffle!”

“What? What’s that?” Hastur demanded of the trio.

The Erics stilled and the one that had spoken gulped before clarifying. “It’s- well, it’s a little joke we came up with. For these kinds of jobs. You know, ‘cause we’re shuffling the driver out… shuffling one of us in…”

He yelped when Hastur pinned him to the pavement under one of his massive paws. “I don’t like jokes,” he growled.

“Right! Right, sorry!” Eric squeaked.

“Oh, come on, Hastur, s’just a joke.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so wretched to be around if you had a sense of humour.”

That got the mutt to let up on crushing the Eric, his attention turned to Crowley who met his gaze evenly. “Think I don’t have a sense of humour do you? Well, how’s this for a lark? You think you’re so clever, why don’t you take on the starring role?”

Crowley’s ears flattened. Bollocks. Why’d he have to go and open his bloody mouth? “Me?”

“Yeah, you. What’s the matter? Scaredy cat.”

So much for not liking jokes. “Fine. Not like you lot would even know what to look for in a car like that.”

“Go for something good,” Ligur growled.

“Eric,” all three looked to Dagon as she told them to, “go out and give us a fender-bender.”

“How?” Eric asked.

“I don’t care how. Just make it happen,” Dagon ordered and the French bulldogs skittered away. “Ligur and I will work the crowd. Hastur, that makes you the distraction. We’ve got one shot, don’t know if we’ll get another go around ‘til we get it right. Now, let’s get out there and raise Hell.”

The gang scattered.

In Crowley’s opinion, Hastur was the perfect choice to be the distraction. He already looked like he’d been run over. Twice.

While the scraggly mutt grunted and laid still as he faked being hit by the vintage Bentley, the black cat slunk beneath it to the driver’s side as the door opened. A pair of stern heels stepped out in front of him, leaving the door slightly ajar as the driver strode to the front of the car to investigate the mysterious thud. Crowley leapt inside and landed on the driver’s seat. The leather upholstery was soft beneath the pads of his paws, so he had to be mindful of his claws as he walked. He placed his paws against the polished dashboard and rose onto his hind legs to peer over the top of it. He couldn’t see Hastur from his vantage point, but he could definitely see the pursed and painted lips of a woman in sunglasses. He could also see that she _definitely_ looked more embarrassed for the dog than concerned about his well-being.

“That’s quite enough now, you unsightly creature. What sort of behavior is this?” she tsked, her Scottish accent coming through with her disapproval. 

_Hastur._ Crowley shook his head and eased back down to explore the rest of the car, then froze as he was captured by a pair of blue eyes bright as a winter sky gazing at him from behind bars. It was another cat, with pure white fur that looked softer than freshly fallen snow, like he could just sink into it. He watched him with cautious curiosity, and Crowley could freely admit he’d never seen anything as beautiful in all creation.

His tail twitched with interest, then stilled as the pretty cat’s feather duster of a tail beat against the sides of the carrier anxiously. Well, he supposed he had a right to be, given some strange, stray cat had just strut right into his - his? Yes, his - territory. 

“Don’t worry, not going to hurt you,” Crowley told him, marvelling at the odd urge to reassure this cat rather than be too terribly offended by his judgment.

“Obviously not,” the white cat replied, unsurprisingly prissy, then gestured at the carrier.

“Mneh, fair point.”

“What _are_ you doing here?”

Crowley shrugged. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“My dear, I’m not the one currently trespassing.”

“Well,” Crowley drew out the word to buy some time, not that he had much to spare.

“Certainly you must have the wrong automobile.”

Stopping to explain he’d planned on making off with the stereo system didn’t seem like the best idea. “Right. ‘Course. Wrong Bentley, obviously. Ngk. I’ll just be popping along then…”

Crowley stilled, hackles raised. The driver was already heading back. _Shitshitshitshit-_ He was doomed.

The carrier door swung open and the white cat beckoned him inside. “Quickly!”

“Wot?”

“You mustn’t let Nanny catch you!”

Crowley squeezed in, hidden by the other cat’s fluff as he latched it closed before the woman could see. Immediately he was surrounded in someone else’s scent, clean and perfumed with something more luxurious than Crowley ever had the opportunity to experience before. Part of him, a distant, vague memory of life before the cardboard box on the street, recognized it as the smell of old books and fresh cup of Earl Grey tea, of bergamot and lavender. It tickled his nose just like the feathery fur of the cat’s tail as it curled over him protectively. 

Yellow eyes widened and he tried to hold it back, but he squeaked out a sneeze that had the white cat tense. Nanny - the driver, apparently - turned to look at the carrier with an arched brow. “Have a bit of a sniffle, angel?”

The cat - Angel? - meowed innocently, blue eyes wide and sweet enough to satisfy the woman. She tsked, starting the car so they could continue on their way. Shit. Crowley realized he couldn’t see out the windows from this vantage point, he had no idea where they were going. Obviously somewhere upscale like the Ritz, but he rarely ventured to the posh neighborhoods, unwilling to risk a bit of mischief where he’d more than likely wind up in a shelter. He wasn’t very familiar with the area, which would make it a right pain to get back to the others. 

No, Crowley hadn’t really thought this through. Hastur and Ligur were going to kill him. Then Dagon was going to kill him. Then Bea, then _Satan himself_ -

“Oh…” Crowley was yanked out of his spiral by the pretty white cat’s fretting, his tail twitching anxiously. “I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing. It wasn’t my intention to take you so far from your home, my dear boy.”

Crowley’s ears lowered as something… warm and unfamiliar blossomed in his chest. He couldn’t tell if it hurt or not, expecting nearly every feeling to carry some tinge of bitterness to it. “Nah, don’t think a cat like you _can_ do the wrong thing,” he drawled, half-sarcastic - he couldn’t help it when most of the time he was addressing Hastur and Ligur - and half-reassuring. When that seemed to cheer him up some, slowing the swishing of his tail and coaxing him to settle in a comfortable loaf position, Crowley made the decision to continue with the reassuring half. “But don’t worry, Angel. Don’t have much of a home to be taken from, so it’s not exactly a loss on my part.”

The cat turned to look at him, so Angel must’ve been his name, concern and questions brimming in blue eyes, but before he could ask any of them, the entire carrier was jostled and forced to endure its own personal earthquake. Crowley’s fur bristled, glaring at his confinement as if it was responsible for the shaking and would be bullied into submission. It didn’t work. Angel appeared nonplussed, apparently unbothered by the carrier’s carrying on. He didn’t know how he could stand the movement of the car and the movement of the carrier.

“What’s going on?” Crowley asked, but the other cat simply looked at him in blank confusion before he sighed and clarified, “What’s making everything- mmnngh. Ngk. Wobble about like a bloody earthquake?”

“Oh! Oh, well, that would be young master Warlock,” Angel replied. “He likes to kick the seats.”

“ _Warlock_?”

“Yes, he’s my human,” Angel replied, puffing out his chest with pride, despite the fact that the child was clearly breaking a rule if the way the driver peered over the tops of her sunglasses and into the rearview mirror was any indication.

“ _Dear_.” The Scottish woman only had to say one word and the shaking stopped.

“Sorry, Nanny,” a young boy’s voice came from the backseat of the Bentley. “So what did you hit?”

“I did not hit anything,” she corrected without a trace of hesitation. “Something hit me. And it will not make that mistake again.”

Crowley watched as a young boy’s face appeared from the back, chin propped up on the top of the driver’s seat. “ _Fine._ What hit you then?”

“An incredibly unfortunate creature.”

“A dog then?” Warlock grinned impishly, though his nanny didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Was it alright?”

“Thought you were afraid of dogs, dear.”

“I’m not _afraid_ of dogs,” he huffed and rolled his eyes dramatically. “I just don’t like them. Doesn’t mean I won’t feel bad if you hit one. I mean, Mr. Francis always tells me to be kind to all living things. Even dogs.”

“And _I’ve_ told you all living things are fit to be ground beneath my heel,” Nanny retorted sharply, but when Warlock just laughed her dark purple lips threatened to quirk up before she frowned harder, eyes still on the road. “How many times have I told you not to listen to a thing that man says?”

“A bajillion.”

Crowley wasn’t sure if he was annoyed by the brat’s audacity or impressed by it, deciding on the latter when Warlock smiled down at Angel. With a look like that, the kid could clearly appreciate proper beauty. He stretched his fingers out to the bars and let Angel press his plush, pink nose to them, then rubbed his cheek against them affectionately. Crowley hunkered down further to avoid being seen, but the boy was quickly shooed away by his nanny and told to sit his bum down properly lest he go flying through the windscreen on a sudden stop.

“So Nanny’s not your human?” Crowley asked.

“No, she looks after young Warlock while his parents are away which is… often.” Angel’s ears drooped a bit. “Currently they’re away at a conference and won’t be back for a few weeks. They’re going to miss his eleventh birthday.”

“That’s a shame.” While Crowley had never celebrated a birthday, no one in the gang did, he knew what they were and that human children were especially fond of them.

“It is, rather,” Angel agreed.

“Didn’t think your side had those kinds of problems.”

“What do you mean ‘my side?’”

“You know… rich, snobby, uppercrust types.”

Angel swatted him in the face with his tail. “I beg your pardon, what on Earth gives you the impression that we’re rich snobs?”

Crowley stared at him blandly. “Seriously, Angel?”

“Yes, I’m quite serious!”

“Well, that tartan collar for one.” Crowley nodded pointedly at the tartan patterned collar fastened around the fluff at his neck, with a bowtie affixed to it and a shiny, golden license. 

Angel gasped in offense. “Tartan’s _stylish_!”

Crowley grinned, taking a surprising amount of pleasure in teasing him. Almost as much as he did in surrounding himself in all his glorious fur. “Sounds like something a rich snob would say.”

“Oh, you wily thing,” Angel scolded, though it still held more warmth than Bea’s attempts at praise ever did. “Enough about my living arrangements, we were discussing yours.”

“Were we?”

“Do you really not have a home at all?” he asked, the concern back. “I know you are a- a street cat, but surely you can’t survive long out there without proper shelter. It gets cold out. And quite a bit damp. Not very pleasant.”

“What can I say, Angel,” Crowley’s smile turned a bit crooked. “I make an art out of staying alive.”

“Do you even- er… have a name?” he asked, looking a bit sheepish at even having to ask.

“‘Course I got a name. It’s Crowley.”

“Crowley?” The way the white cat tried it out, giving attention to each individual letter as though it was deserving of it.

He shivered at the sound of it. Yeah, he’d definitely picked a good name. “Ngk.”

“Well…” Angel pondered that for a moment. “Well, that still just won’t do. You seem a decent enough fellow-”

“Oi. Don’t insult me, Angel.”

“And our home can most certainly accommodate another cat,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard him, though Crowley didn’t care, too stunned by what he was saying. What _was_ he saying?

“What are you saying?” he asked, because maybe spending all that time around Hastur had killed off a few brain cells.

“Young Warlock might not have much interest in things at the moment due to… adolescence, but he is still rather fond of animals. I think he’d appreciate the additional company and would most certainly want to take you in. Provided you don’t have fleas or any strange diseases.” Angel suddenly tensed, lifting his tail a bit and Crowley mourned the loss of his fur. “You don’t have fleas or a strange disease do you?”

There were several smart responses he could have fired back had he been in the right frame of mind, as it was, Crowley could only nod dumbly, yellow eyes impossibly wide as Angel smiled brightly with relief and allowed his tail to blanket him once more.

“Oh, good. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

“But I’m a black cat,” Crowley blurted suddenly.

Dazzling blue eyes blinked at him. “Yes, my dear boy, I can see that.”

“Well, he- ngk. He couldn’t possibly want a black cat.”

“Oh, I can assure you, that will only make the little scoundrel want you more.”

He did have a bit of mischievous side to him, from what Crowley saw, but he still couldn’t believe it. “But I’m s’posed to be bad luck.”

Angel smiled at him indulgently, stealing Crowley’s breath away in a way that was absolutely unfair when all he wanted was to breathe in more of this comforting, homey scent and pretend like he really could entertain the thought of making this pretty cat’s home his home. To pretend like a child would actually want him. Bad luck and all.

“Well, so far, I’d say I haven’t seen any trace of bad luck. Quite the opposite, rather.” His pleased smile turned a bit shy. “But of course, this is only if you want to… that is- if you’d like to…”

“Stay?” Crowley croaked out, tail hesitantly brushing the white fluffy one.

Angel’s tail twined around his own. “Precisely.”

Crowley swallowed. “Might do. Depends…”

“On?”

“Does it get a lot of sun?”

“You truly are a devil, aren’t you?” Angel sighed, but he was smiling as he said it and Crowley could breathe again.

\----

Warlock brought the cat carrier up to his room - oddly heavier than he remembered it being, but at first chalked it up to the extra treats he’d slip his cat when no one was looking - then set it on the floor and unlatched it. “Alright, come on out, Aziraphale.”

“What the Heaven did he just call you?” Crowley demanded.

Angel blinked at him. “That’s my name. Aziraphale.”

“Wuh- buh- mneugh- but you answered to Angel!”

If cats could blush, Angel - Aziraphale - certainly would be. “Well, I didn’t mind when you called me that.”

“Your Nanny did, too,” Crowley pointed out.

“Yes, well, that’s more of an- erm… what do you call it? An interior joke of sorts that has to do with the other animal occupant of the household.”

“S’an inside joke, Aziraphale.”

“Right, that’s the one.” He looked too pleased with himself.

“Wait, you didn’t say there was another pet here. What kind?”

Aziraphale rose and stretched, looking a bit sheepish before padding out. “A six time regional champion. A show dog. His name’s Gabriel.”1

“Sounds like a prat.”

“Oh you don’t know the half of it, my dear.”

Aziraphale finally stepped out of his carrier and Warlock grabbed one of his crinkly, sushi cat toys to play with him, but then stopped when he saw a black cat slowly slink out after him, belly low to the ground, ears and eyes alert. “Where’d you come from?” he asked Crowley, though he didn’t expect the cat to answer because cats couldn’t talk, obviously.

He set aside the sushi toy and curled his fingers into a fist, slowly offering it for the cat to sniff if he wanted to. Aziraphale rubbed up against Crowley to encourage him, then butted his head against Warlock’s hand. Crowley followed him - he was quickly realizing he wanted to follow this angel anywhere, and wasn’t that dangerous? - and allowed the boy to rub the top of his head with his knuckles, then the tips of his fingers, then a full-bodied stroke that had him shuddering. The muscles in his back twitched and spasmed as Crowley was pet.

A deep rumbling purr emitted from his chest and he stared at Aziraphale in a panicked sort of daze. The white cat echoed his purrs and this time butted his head against Crowley.

“If we pretend we found you in the garden, I bet Mr. Francis can convince Nanny to let you stay,” Warlock told him, grinning deviously. 

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Aziraphale replied. “How does that sound, my dear?”

It sounded like Crowley might finally be home.

**Author's Note:**

> 1. Gabriel’s full name for show dog purposes is Archangel Gabriel. Nanny detests him and never calls him that, but will purposefully call Aziraphale “angel” to annoy the dog.↩
> 
> Also, I just want to say, I'm sorry that all the dogs who appear in this are mean. I will try and make it up to dogs another time, lol. But also, I am a cat person, so I really had a fun time making them cats xD


End file.
